Bernie Davis 1945 - 2021
Anna remembers her Dad…..
I   remember   being   in   a   house   filled   with   music,   going   to   folk   festivals   and rolling   down   hills   in   between   asking   dad   for   crisp   money   and   joining   in   with ceilidh   dances.     I   remember   warm,   music-filled   pubs   and   friendly   faces   with beards.   I   remember   climbing   mountains   and   being   warmed   up   in   dad’s   duvet jacket,   nowhere   warmer!   I   remember   he   was   always   fully   kitted   out,   just   in case.    I    remember    camping    holidays,    the    smell    of    canvas    and    cut    grass, snuggling   down   in   our   sleeping   bags   while   dad   made   us   a   hot   drink   in   the porch   of   the   tent.   I   remember   dad   digging   trenches   in   the   driving   rain   around the   tent   to   divert   the   water   and   keep   us   all   dry.   I   remember   being   taught   how to   ask   for   200g   of   ham   in   a   French   supermarché   and   translating   the   silly   jokes in   the   Carambars   when   we   got   back   to   the   caravan.   I   remember   watching   him run   into   the   path   of   a   bike   race   to   grab   a   toddler   and   sweep   him   to   safety, super-hero   style.   I   remember   the   stories   of   Woolton,   and   of   the   people   that came   before.   I   remember   him   making   jig   dolls   with   us,   him   riding   the   trolley   in   the   supermarket   and recreating    the    ministry    of    silly    walks    while    we    feigned    embarrassment    but    were    secretly    amused.    I remember   his   encouragement,   his   sage   advice   and   the   fact   that   in   our   house,   we   knew   that   there   was nothing that we couldn’t do if we put our minds to it. I   remember   in   my   teenage   years,   when   he   would   nip   out   to   Oddbins   in   the   evening   to   buy   me   chocolate   and crisps.   I   remember   him   and   mum   patiently   sitting   in   A   and   E   for   hours   with   me   on   my   first   day   at   university after   I   finally   revealed   the   enormous   swollen   ankle   I   had   inflicted   on   myself   by   falling   over   in   my   ridiculous wedge-heels   the   night   before.   I   remember   pick   ups   and   drop   offs   at   airports.   I   remember   him   dropping   my friends and me off in the Lakes so that we could get up to mischief in the caravan. Later,   I   remember   him   walking   me   down   the   aisle   and   playing   his   wonderful   music   at   my   wedding.   I remember   his   gentleness   with   my   babies;   drawing   with   them,   carrying   them   on   walks,   playing   with   them and   teaching   them   all   sorts   of   things.   I   remember   when   he   wasn’t   well,   he   would   use   his   inventiveness   to   be able   to   play   with   them   in   different   ways.   I   remember   that   he   brought   out   beautiful   qualities   in   them.   They always   wanted   to   bring   him   pillows,   make   him   laugh   and   smile   and   sing   to   him,   like   he   had   done   for   them and us before. I   remember   his   determination,   how   he   never   gave   up   on   trying   to   walk   unaided   or   to   play   music   again.   I remember   his   unbeatable   spirit   and   my   children   seeing   that   however   difficult   the   challenge,   if   the   result   is worth   it,   you   keep   fighting.   I   remember   laughing   with   him   on   a   trip   out   in   the   car   when   I   accidentally   took him   on   an   unintended   tour   of   the   Mersey   Tunnel   after   missing   my   turn   off.   He   never   lost   his   sense   of humour. I’ll   always   remember   the   beautiful   messages   we   have   had   from   people   dad   has   known   throughout   his   life and the memories of him that are scattered wherever he has been. He   is   here   when   I   see   my   children   refuse   to   give   up,   every   time   I   see   my   little   boy   patiently   teaching   his   little sister   how   to   play   a   game   or   read   a   book,   every   time   I   try   to   embarrass   my   son   in   the   supermarket,   play   my violin   or   wish   I’d   worn   warmer   socks.   When   I   take   my   kids   camping   in   France   and   get   them   to   order   the   deux cent   grammes   de   jambon,   when   I   snuggle   them   up   all   cozy   and   tired   on   a   camping   trip,   every   time   someone plays a song of his or remembers a funny time with him. We are because he was. He is here.